


The Ribbon

by afteriwake



Series: WIP Big Bang Accomplishments [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Inspired By a Children's Story, Inspired By a Scary Story, Kid Molly, Kid Sherlock, Married Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, Molly Has Secrets, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot Twists, Poor Molly, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Surprise Ending, Teen Molly, Teen Sherlock, Victorian, Victorian Molly Hooper, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets a girl who always wears a ribbon around her neck, a ribbon she never takes off. As they age and their relationship grows, the ribbon never leaves its spot from around her neck. But he wonders, up until the very end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amberowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberowl/gifts).



>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
> So obviously, right off the bat, most people who grew up when I did or have ever read the book In A Dark, Dark Room and Other Scary Stories by Alvin Shwartz are going to see this ending coming a mile off, as the story that inspired this fic is "The Green Ribbon" (which, if you would like to read it, I was treated to seeing cross my Tumblr dashboard in its entirety [here](http://sugarcoatedagony.tumblr.com/post/78423096839/this-is-one-of-my-favorite-childhood-stories) recently). I got a prompt from **LadyEmmalineWrites1812** for a Sherlolly fic with the prompt " _Red Ribbon, 4_ " and immediately thought of this story, and decided I wanted to do a multichapter rewrite set in the Victorian era (and then when I saw the Tumblr post a week later I was all "It's a sign!") and thus here it is. Enjoy!
> 
>  **Edit:** And the lovely cover art for the story was done by the wonderful **Amberowl** for my birthday. Thank you so much, sweetie!

He knew everyone in Cambridge. They were all boring, boring people, the lot of them. He knew their secrets, all the things they tried to hide, and they were all so _simple_. Ever since…well, ever since Sherrinford left, ever since he was driven off, he’d decided it wasn’t worth associating with anyone. It was better to hold himself aloft, look down on everyone like Mycroft did.

Oh, who was he fooling? He was lonely. So very, very lonely.

He heard the movements outside his window, to the cottage to the side of his parents, and jimmied his window open. His parents were rather averse to having them open; too much of a draft, they said. But he liked the air. He liked the cool, crisp breeze on his skin in the summer evenings. He could see through the trees an automobile, one that looked a bit battered, as though it had traveled far and wasn’t new to start with, and an older gentleman and a younger one, around fifteen or so, unloading things from it. He knew the cottage was furnished; old man Robinson had died from influenza a year prior in town when he’d been hunting for his third wife and had left his cottage fully furnished. Having no heirs, it had been left empty and his mother and father had kept a watchful eye on it.

And then he saw the girl. Her hair was down, which wasn’t unusual for a girl her age. His age, he reckoned, maybe a year or two younger. Brown hair, down past her shoulders. Sweet-natured face. Kind eyes that looked around at everything curiously. A red ribbon around her neck, which was odd. It didn’t match her frock entirely; it was black, the colour of mourning. He supposed if she was the wear a ribbon around her neck it should have been black as well. The red was an odd choice.

Curious.

He looked down at his attire and realized it wouldn’t do if he was to introduce himself and begin to gather more facts to make more accurate deductions. He quickly changed into something more presentable, debating for a moment what to do about the nest of curls on top of his head before deciding not to give a fig about them and then dashing out of his bedroom and out the door, ignoring the startled cries of the housekeeper as he dashed past her. He made his way into the yard and then out the gate, only slowly when he realized he had caught the eye of the young girl. He rounded towards her gate, watching her come to her fence, and then stopped in the lane, nodding towards her. “Hello,” he said.

She gave him a wide smile. He had never noticed smiles before but hers was rather pleasant, he supposed. Nicer than Ginerva McMillan’s, at least, when she sidled up to him outside the greengrocer's shoppe. “Hello,” she said. She had a pleasant voice as well. “You’re my neighbour?”

He nodded at that. “Sherlock,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m Margaret,” she replied. “But most people call me Molly.” She extended her hand towards him. He looked at it a moment and then shook it. She giggled at that and then shook it back. “I’d half thought you were supposed to kiss my knuckles.”

“Adults play at that,” he scoffed, letting go of her hand. “We’re children.”

“But manners are manners,” she said.

“Sod manners,” he said with a shrug.

Her smile widened and she leaned in slightly. “I feel much the same way,” she said with a grin. “Much to my mother’s chagrin.”

He frowned. “The older gentleman carrying in possessions is not your father, then?” he asked.

She shook her head. “My uncle,” she replied. “He’s a kind man, whose wife was a distant relative of the man who owned this cottage. He’s allowing us to reside here for a low monthly sum, as he has a soft spot for my mother.”

“It is good there is kindness in the world,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. A woman called out her name and she turned away, calling back, before turning back to him. “I should go now. My mother likes punctuality. But perhaps you can call upon me later? Properly, of course. With your parents.”

He nodded. “I suppose.”

“Good.” She gave him another wide smile. “Until we meet again, Sherlock.” She pulled away from the fence, giving him a wave, and then walked away back towards her cottage. He watched, completely mesmerized. He had never been one to believe in love at first sight or love at first meeting, but perhaps there was some truth in those old wives tales of such a phenomenon. Because he was starting to wonder if, perhaps, he had just fallen in love with Margaret Hooper.

And for the moment, the mystery of the red ribbon had slipped to the back of his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly was unlike any girl he’d ever met before. She was full of piss and vinegar, as his Uncle Rudy would say, but she was the bravest, smartest girl he knew. Better than Ginerva, better than his own mum, even. He adored her and was very protective of her.

Not that she needed it, of course. She could very much stand up to the bullies who would attempt to pick on her. Just once, and then they weren’t a problem anymore, for her or for him. Most boys would be upset if it was a _girl_ standing up for them, but they weren’t girls like Molly. He liked Molly a lot and appreciated the fact she liked him too.

It was nice to finally have a friend.

Today they were out in the area by the grand oak tree that grew in her yard, inspecting it. Molly had said trees were fascinating, but they’d been distracted by the dead fox nearby. They were both studying it for a time before her mother chased them away, and Molly had run into her home and gotten a soft quilt and some tea sandwiches and tea for them from the kitchen, saying if they couldn’t actually study the fox, they could hypothesize about how it died.

She was an unusual girl, but that suited him just fine. He was an unusual boy, much to his mother’s consternation.

“So was it an illness? Or a poacher who got scared off by Papa?” she asked.

Sherlock munched on his sandwich. “I did not see any bullet holes, at least on the side that was up, so I’d assume illness.”

“But there was blood nearby,” Molly said. “Perhaps another animal got to it?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said. Molly spilled crumbs on her frock and brushed them off her lap without a care. For a moment it jarred him that the frock was dark grey but the ribbon she wore around her neck was still a deep red. “Do you ever take the ribbon off?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “And you can’t take it off, either. I have no cares about how curious you get.” She picked up her tea and took a sip.

“Why is it red?” he asked.

“It’s always been red,” she said, shrugging a bit. “I never asked why.”

“Perhaps you should,” Sherlock said.

“Perhaps,” she said, tilting her head. “My mama might tell me.”

Sherlock nodded, satisfied for the moment that she would. Molly was just as curious as he was, and perhaps if she asked they could both share the answer and speculate over it. He liked sharing things with Molly; his sweets, his time, his thoughts, they were all at Molly’s disposal. And at the same time, she shared what she had, too, meager as it was.

He liked Molly, he knew that. Liked her a lot.

And as long as she liked him too, life was good.


	3. Chapter 3

As they grew, Sherlock found he still liked Molly. But like grew into something more as time passed. Like became love, a deep and abiding love for his childhood friend. A love of the romantic type, which Sherlock was sure he’d never had been able to feel if it wasn’t for his dear Molly. And she was dear to him, more dear than many other things in his life.

They had a courtship of sorts, though Molly laughed at this and often they snuck out to spend time without chaperones, much as they had when they were children. There were spots in the nearby woods where they could have privacy, and while it was all still innocent, where they did nothing but look at the stars and talk, there was something about it all that made it more thrilling when it was just them.

He had never kissed her, not done much more than hold her hand a time or two. He didn’t mind, though; he loved her and she assured him she loved him, “as much as there is water in the oceans, as long as there are stars in the sky.” Her words made him feel warm inside, loved, in a way unlike how his own family made him feel. He wished his family would let them be, but his mother insisted things be proper, follow form.

Bother that. If he could, he would whisk Molly away, travel the ocean, and begin life anew, far away where no one knew them. He would shower her with love and comfort her when she was sad and they would be happy.

He wanted them to be happy.

“Mama says that we aren’t to sneak off anymore,” Molly said, rolling onto her stomach and beginning to pick the wildflowers in the patch of grass they were lying on. “I love Mama, but I want my own life.”

“I want the same,” Sherlock said. “We could travel to London? That’s far enough away that by the time we’re found there’s nothing our elders can do.”

Molly’s eyes lit up, but her smile was a tad more mischievous. “You haven’t yet kissed me, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’d thought you might sock me in the arm for being too forward,” he admitted.

Her laugh was bright and loving as she leveraged herself up into a half-sitting position. “No, Sherlock. Not for a kiss upon the lips.”

He came over to her, kneeling next to her, and cradled her face in his hands. The heels of his hands brushed against the ribbon. “A kiss for a chance to escape this place?”

“A kiss for love,” she said, sitting up more and kissing him. It was a sweet kiss, and rather chaste, he thought, but it was full of promises unspoken. When they were done she threw her arms around his neck. “Away we go, Sherlock, to a life of our own.”

“Away we go,” he said, holding her back for a moment before they broke apart. A quick trip to their homes for some money for a room at an inn, more time to get a way to London, and their life together would begin.

What an adventure it would be.


	4. Chapter 4

They were married, some might consider too young, but they were happy. They were beyond happy, even though it was not the wedding his dear Molly deserved. But she did not care, holding a simple bouquet of lavender and roses when they found a priest to marry them, and they were happy to be Mr. & Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

Their parents were displeased, but not to the point where they were cut off. Molly’s mother gave what she could as a dowry, and they settled in the outskirts of London. Sherlock traveled into town to make his way as a private investigator, quickly showing a talent for more than that, and being the lead consultant for a certain Detective Inspector known as Lestrade. And they were doing well when she surprised him with the news that she was with child, one scant year after their marriage.

He watched her swell and bloom, in awe of the changes in her body as she got further along in the pregnancy. He would press kisses on the small marks dotting her sides as the skin stretched to accommodate their child growing inside her, let his ear settle on her rounded belly once the babe began to kick inside her, hoping to feel the movement.

She did not agree with pregnancy, but so long as the child was healthy he had no care if this was their only one. She said, at times, it was hard to breathe. Hard to swallow. He suggested she remove the ribbon from around her neck but she steadfastly refused. She never took the ribbon off, the scarlet red around her neck, and incorporated it into each outfit she wore, favoring shades of red, much to the dismay of the ton.

But she did not care for the ton. She cared for him, and their child, and she was content. And when she birthed a healthy girl they named Luella Kitty Holmes, for she had fought hard to come out of her mother’s womb alive and healthy, and such a warrior deserved a name befitting her. Molly was exhausted, too tired to hold the girl, and he cared for daughter and mother alike.

Molly grew pale, paler than before, as though having her daughter had stolen some of her life. But she loved the girl, with her dark curls and bright eyes, and Luella was an even-tempered child who cried rarely and, as she grew older, smiled often, and they were a happy family.

But such happiness rarely lasts.


	5. Chapter 5

The news came from Cambridge that Mrs. Hooper had died, and Molly changed into black for mourning. Luella wore black frocks as well, and they traveled to Cambridge to attend to matters there. There was not much left to the estate, though Molly’s uncle said to take what she wanted, as it was her inheritance. And Molly took the things that mattered most, the things that reminded her of her mother and things that would be best passed down to Luella. Then they paid their respects to the Holmes family, who were still upset about the sudden marriage but pleased to see their granddaughter growing like a weed, and then they returned to London.

Though Molly needn't have remained in mourning clothes long, she never wore colorful garments again, save for the red velvet ribbon around her neck. She wore the ribbon night and day, never taking it off, not even if the ribbon got wet in the inclimate weather that plagued London and its surrounding areas. And sometimes his thoughts would drift to the ribbon, and curiosity would burn feverishly. One night he pushed at the ribbon a bit, sliding it a fraction of a centimeter down her throat, but he stopped when she rolled over and pressed her face against his chest. Should she want the affectation to stay in place, he would allow it without further comment or curiosity.

But Molly, his dear, lovely, wife, the jewel of his life, began to wither. As winter settled in, she smiled and laughed as she had before, looking vibrant at times, but she was soon caught by a wracking cough that would not leave. It seemed to settle in her lungs and rattle there as she breathed.

When winter turned to spring and it warmed somewhat, Sherlock had hoped the cough would lessen, but instead, it became worse. She was bedridden, but still content. Always content, his Molly. The smile stayed on her face, the twinkle in her eye, even as the cough wracked her body. It gave him hope she would survive spring and summer and fall and another winter, and perhaps longer.

But that was not to be. Slowly, as flowers blossomed outside their cottage, the life slipped from her, faint whispers each day, until the twinkle in her eye dimmed and the smiles were smaller and the coughs were harsher. Soon the doctors said not to bring Luella into the room, for fear the young girl would catch the illness from her beloved mother and he would lose them both.

And one night his sweet, sweet Molly called to him, beckoning him to her bedside. It had been long since they had laid next to each other, and for a moment he held her tightly in his arms as she slept, as she had asked for, “one last time.” He did not sleep, did not dream, instead burning the feel of his one true love in his memory, storing it in the palace he constructed to help him solve cases, in the special room that belonged to the woman who had stolen his heart as a child long ago and never given it back.

When she awoke, she said she did not want a doctor from London to see her. There was a specific doctor who would see her body when she was dead and then, only then, could he remove the ribbon from round her neck, because she knew him, knew the question of why she wore the ribbon had burned inside him for so long.

He made plans for the doctor to be found, and by the week’s end, an old man approached their cottage, naming himself as the doctor who had been asked for. Molly slept more than she was awake, but she made sure to be awake when the doctor examined her and said yes, her time had come, may she go with God to a better place.

Molly turned to her husband, gave him one last smile, and said “I love you, Sherlock, as I have loved no other. Love me after I am gone?”

“I will,” he said, and she shut her eyes as she took her last breath. And then, her spirit left her body.

The doctor moved to the corner of the room and Sherlock carefully lifted his darling wife’s head and undid the ribbon. It was only then, when the ribbon was untied and removed, that her head rolled to the side, detached from the body as though a guillotine had been taken to it, and his eyes widened. 

His Molly had cheated death for longer than he had known her with a red velvet ribbon tied round her neck. Lived long enough to love and carry on her husband’s legacy.

But there was no need for ribbons now. Her soul was in Heaven. Her body could be laid to rest.

And she would be missed, so sorely missed, and forever loved.


End file.
